


Someone Waiting for Me

by rosiep8801



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: A couple of drabbles at the start but boy will they get longer as we go, Angst, Arya learning how to be human again and open up to another person, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Fill-in scenes between Arya and Gendry, Hurt/Comfort, I doubt there would be interest in that whole piece but I do have these, I've hoarded too much Gendrya content in my longer piece, Mostly Canon Compliant, Season 8, Starts in 8x02, with some deviation from canon near the end
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 17:46:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28622013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosiep8801/pseuds/rosiep8801
Summary: A collection of fill-in scenes between Arya and Gendry during Season 8. This was an exercise in working around canon and filling in those blanks it leaves, so technically everything is canon, but also eventually my take on a Gendrya ending.
Relationships: Arya Stark & Sansa Stark, Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Jon Snow & Arya Stark, Sandor Clegane & Arya Stark
Comments: 20
Kudos: 101





	1. You're It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These chapters are all pieces of a much larger thing I've been writing for a while. That thing is probably not something I figured others would be interested in (an Arya-centric version of seasons 7&8 that I've been writing just for fun) but I also ended up accumulating a hoard of Gendrya content along the way that I did want to share. I'm still working on that piece so I'll just update this as I go along (the title is my working title for the whole piece, yes from Ed Sheeran's song Perfect, yes).
> 
> Chapters will jump around to different points in canon as we get to them (with some much longer interlude sections during time skips). This one starts just after Forgesex in 8x02.

They lay together a while later, Arya still half draped over his chest, his hand curled around her hip. His thumb moved delicately over her skin, tracing the path of one long, dark scar.

“It’s been a long time,” he said, but she could hear the words he didn’t say.

“It has,” she said, placing her hand over his, stilling it. “I’m sure you have some of your own.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, but I’m a blacksmith. Or, I _was,_ and in Flea Bottom at that. Not exactly the kind of place you can avoid scars.”

“Neither was the place I went.” The words escaped before she could stop them and she cursed herself. She didn’t want to leave an opening for more questions. They didn’t have long together; she didn’t want to waste that time rehashing past traumas or endangering this new, delicate thing between them. And she didn’t know what else that information would do but ruin things.

He met her eyes, his smile dropping. “And where was that?”

She’d known that was coming. But she wasn’t going to lie to him. She’d keep piece information to herself, but she would not lie to him. “Braavos,” she said. “For a time.”

“You got this in Braavos?” He asked.

She nodded and guided his hand across her abdomen. “And this one, and this one, and this one…”

“Seems like you didn’t make many friends there,” he said softly, watching as she moved his hand from scar to scar.

“I’m not as good at making friends as I used to be,” she said. As a child, she’d make friends with anyone, chattering away with hedge knights and rogues even when everyone told her not to. The only people she could never seem to get along with were the ones who had expected things of her. Like the septa, or even Sansa. After losing so many people, though, she didn’t see the point in trying to make friends. They’d all die anyway, sooner or later. It was better to be alone.

Part of her felt a hypocrite, to be here, with him now. A larger part of her didn’t care.

He laughed again, laying back against the sacks of grain and grinning broadly. “I can imagine that.”

She shifted, intentionally digging her elbow into his shoulder as she pushed herself up. “Are you saying I’m unlikable?”

He wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her flush against him, still smiling. “I’m saying…it takes a certain kind of person.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Oh? And you think you’re it?”

“Well,” he said. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

She answered him with a kiss, pressing her lips softly to his. Her hand curled around his neck and his rose to the back of her head, tangling his fingers in the short tresses of her hair. He’d already undone the bun at the back of her head, so the braid hung straight down instead. Now he wrapped that braid around his hand, gently tugging at her hair until she pulled back.

He met her gaze steadily, his thumb gently caressing her cheek. “Are you all right, Arya?”

She froze. Arya did not know how to answer that question. At that moment, she was only all right if she didn’t think about what was coming or where she’d been. And at that moment, just her and him, she felt better than she had in years. “Yes,” she said and it was only a half-lie. She pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth and patted his chest. “We should get some rest,” she said.

His brow furrowed and she thought for a moment that he would press her for more. But he just nodded and shifted to accomodate her when she laid herself down on his chest, her head tucked up under his chin.


	2. Don't Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is one is the start of 8x03, just after the horns began to sound.

Arya was nearly fully dressed by the time Gendry woke up.

She was buckling her belt back into place, forcing herself to move calmly, deliberately. Her fingers were shaking. If she went any faster, she wouldn’t be able to get the belt on at all.

Gendry sat up slowly. “They’re here,” he said dully.

Arya didn’t reply. It seemed obvious that the dead were, in fact, here, so she didn’t see much point in agreeing. She was also worried her voice would shake. Her heart was thumping double-time in her chest and she felt drenched in icy cold sweat, but she didn’t want to admit it, not even to him, and she knew her voice would betray her.

When she finally buckled the belt, she went to the target and pulled her arrows free, placing them back in her quiver. Without a word, she slung the quiver and her bow over her shoulder and picked up the weapon Gendry had made for her.

“Arya,” Gendry said. He’d risen and pulled his breeches back on, clumsy fingers re-tying the laces as he spoke.

She turned and let herself look at him. He was beautiful, she decided. Beautiful like a forest—rugged and wild, never perfect but somehow always _just right._ Her heart hurt because this was the last time she’d ever see him and for the first time she wondered what life might have been like if she’d had this for longer. What kind of person would she be if she was the kind of person who _got_ this? The kind of person who had…love?

She took quick steps forward, placing her spear down and pushing onto her tip toes. She slid her hands around his neck and pulled him down into a deep, lusty kiss. Her fingers dug into the skin of his neck, his curled around her waist, delicate even now. But his lips were just as fierce and desperate as hers, just as hungry and afraid.

By the time she pulled away, they were both flushed and flustered. She kept her hands where they were, pressing her forehead to his. “Don’t die,” she ordered.

“As milady commands,” he replied in a gasp, the bastard.

She closed her eyes, feeling a war in her heart that had nothing to do with the horns blaring or the dead that came with them. She wished she could stay here in this moment, where things were possible and she was different, and let the whole rest of the world pass them by.

But a cold wind whistled down the hall and crept like fingers up her spine. And Arya knew she couldn’t stay.

She dropped her hands and stepped back, out of the circle of his arms. She turned away while she could still convince herself to go.

But he caught her by the arm before she got far, spinning her back around. “You don’t die either,” he said, his eyes bright with fear. He squeezed her arm hard, like that would make her listen. “Do you understand, Arya? You don’t die either.”

She touched the hand on her arm, holding it, and took a deep breath. She pulled his hand off of her, gave a silent, solemn nod, and left.


	3. Dawn, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The immediate aftermath of the Battle of Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case, CW for somewhat graphic depictions of the aftermath of 8x03.
> 
> Also some Stark sisters content in this one, because why not? (For context, because this a segment of a larger piece, Arya had already seen Jon, hence her not being concerned for his welfare).

Walking, Arya began to realize, was an _immensely_ difficult task. Treading uneven ground and maneuvering around piles of dead bodies and writhing men in their death throes—not mention the mammoth dragon corpse lying in the cracked, burned ruin of the bailey—while searching for familiar faces amongst the survivors was the most impossible thing she’d done since she’d learned to fight blind.

It was also thankless. There were more dead than there were living, and those that were alive had the shell-shocked look of those who’d seen true horror. Because they had, and there was no coming back from something like that. Screams filled the air, no longer full of fear, but full of pain instead. Pitiful weeping and agonized groaning, the desperate words of a comrade trying to keep them calm. People were shouting to each other, calling the names of loved ones like they were asking for deliverance. More times than not, that deliverance did not come.

Arya’s feet were leaden. She felt like actual weights were hung round her ankles, dragging her steps slower and slower the more she walked.

“Help me!” Someone cried. Arya couldn’t see who—all she saw was a twitching arm, the person buried under a pile of corpses.

“Please…” a woman sobbed, clutching the body of a young man to her chest. “Please, no…”

She stumbled past, shambling like one of the dead herself. They all were, glassy eyed and dumbstruck. She wished she could turn a deaf ear, shut her eyes and forget the field of bodies that lay ahead of her, but everywhere she turned, there were corpses. Like daisies in a field in the summertime. The only thing that kept her moving was the thought of Sansa, seeing her again, making sure she was safe. It was the last thing keeping Arya sane and whole. When that was done, she could fall to pieces, but not before.

The only good thing was that Arya was easy to overlook in this crowd. No one had their eyes set on her and no one cared who she was. All anybody cared about was who was dead and who was alive. Arya simply didn’t factor in.

By the time she reached the crypt, the door was partially open. The heavy wood was stuck, a mound of the dead propped up against it. Voices rang like a chorus from inside, pleading for help. Fists banged furiously against the wood, the inhabitants worked up to a desperate fervor.

Arya picked up her pace, forcing her body into a jog to get there faster. She grabbed corpses, pulling them out the way as well as she could. Which wasn’t well at all. It was frustrating how little she could do, how her body had stopped responding even as she told it to get a grip, move the bodies, get to Sansa. She was simply too tired to be of much good to anyone.

She grabbed the body of a man by his leather armor, digging her heels into the earth and heaving to move him out of the way. She managed to move him barely moved more than a half dozen inches, but even that left Arya breathing hard and set her head to spinning.

She readjusted her grip, ready to try again, when another pair of hands grabbed the armor as well.

She jumped, dropping her hold on the body. She spun around, arms rising instinctively to ward off an attack.

He jerked back as well, as if anticipating a blow. “Hey, hey, it’s just me,” he said quickly. He lowered the body to the ground and rose up slowly, his summer blue eyes locked on hers.

His mouth opened, but no words came out. Arya didn’t know what to say either, but she had the urgent and undeniable desire to walk into his arms and cry. Where it had come from, she had no idea. She hated the impulse, hated that it made her feel weak to want it. But that hate was small, an untended fire burned down to the coals. More than anything, she just needed to feel something _real._

“Gendry,” she said softly. She wasn’t capable of saying much more, not without losing what little composure she had.

“Arya,” he said, his voice thick. “I found the weapon.”

She blinked, confused. “What?”

He nodded his head to the right, toward the main gates. “I found the weapon. The one I made for you. I thought…”

He didn’t need to say what he thought. She knew.

“I lost it,” she said softly, not knowing what else to say.

He nodded and sniffed, looking down at his hands nervously before looking back up at her. “For a second, I thought you broke your word.”

That’s when she noticed his eyes were tinged with red, puffy with tears. He swallowed hard, his hands worrying at each other while he watched her, waiting for a reaction.

Arya didn’t have a mind for words, then. They were all a jumble, distant and lost to her. So she didn’t try to use them—she cupped his cheek, as she had the night before, and brought his lips down to hers.

It was a soft kiss, barely more than a peck. When they broke apart, she kept her forehead against his, closing her eyes for the briefest of moments. “Starks aren’t very good at breaking their word,” she said. “We’re all too upright and honorable for that.”

He chuffed out a laugh, holding on to her hand and squeezing tight. “Upright and honorable?” He repeated. “That’s good to hear, then.”

“Why don’t you two stop fucking around with each other and help?” A rough, crass voice barked at them.

Arya immediately turned her head toward the Hound. He was scowling, but it was a weak attempt at poor temper. Neither of them had the energy to be properly horrible to each other.

He grabbed onto the body she and Gendry had dropped, dragging it out of the way with a soft grunt. Arya took a step back from Gendry and joined him.

The three of them worked in silence, dislodging all the bodies until the door had enough space to creak open further, pleading voices coming through louder and clearer as the seconds passed. When there was enough space, hands and arms appeared from inside the door, waving in the open air or pushing on the edge to try and wedge it open more. What Arya noticed was that some of those hands were spattered with blood, their cries too desperate for a group of civilians who had seen nothing of the battle.

Had wights gotten into the crypt? Arya knew there were secret tunnels down there. Was it possible the dead had found them? Was it possible that…that Sansa…

She turned away from the door, looked down at the corpse in front of her, and hauled it away.

The Hound had to help her more times that not, glowering and grumbling under his breath as he’d grab an arm and help her pull it. She tried to do it on her own, moving father and farther away from him, but no matter where she went, he was there. Helping. One part of her was intolerably annoyed—the other not so much.

By the end of it, all three of them were breathing hard, hands clumsy and slow. They moved the bodies shorter distances, just enough to get them out of the doorway.

The Hound grabbed onto the door, kicking a corpse away from the entrance, and dragged it open. The wood scratched against frozen earth, mud, and snow, but it slowly ground its way open, leaving marks behind. It only went about a foot before it caught again, but that was far enough for the inhabitants to get out.

And they did. Women, children, and any others who couldn’t fight all scrambled out. Most went too fast and tripped over the dead, falling and screaming as they came face to face with the bodies, then lurching back to their feet. Gendry stepped forward at once, standing by the door to try and help people through, picking them up when they fell down and taking their hands to help them through the doorway. When a little girl came out unaccompanied, he grabbed her about the waist, hoisting her up on his hip and whispering softly in her ear as he walked her away from the door, back onto clear ground.

It wasn’t long before the flood slowed to a trickle. Arya’s gaze was riveted to the door, her heart pounding in her chest. No Sansa. So many blood spattered, panicked civilians, but no Sansa. She had even seen one of the dragon queen’s close associates emerge, the one with the dark curly hair, looking pale and unkept, and Lord Varys, his face streaked with blood. But still.

No Sansa.

Her chest caved in, her heart sinking inside of her. If Sansa was gone…if Sansa was gone…

She didn’t know _what_ she’d do if Sansa was gone. She might just lay down and give up, die like all the rest of the Starks. She wouldn’t be able to take it, she knew that. She wouldn’t be able to live if another one of the Starks died when she could have done something about it.

So when her sister’s flaming red hair appeared in the doorway, Arya couldn’t help herself. She ran to her, throwing her arms around her sister without a second’s hesitation.

Sansa stumbled, thrown off balance, her nerves probably still on edge so soon after the fighting ended. But then her arms came around Arya as well and she held her close, her cheek pressed against Arya’s head.

“Where were you?” Arya heard herself asking. “What took you so long?”

“We were helping the others get out first,” Sansa said quietly, her voice tense and tired.

Arya looked up at her sister. “We?”

“Pardon me, my lady,” Tyrion Lannister said, easing his way around the sisters.

Arya watched him go, working his way carefully around the bodies. Gendry didn’t offer his assistance and Arya couldn’t blame him. For all that Tyrion was the better of the Lannisters, he was still a Lannister—and Daenerys’ Hand. Even still, the man was drawn, the lines of his face heavy and exhausted as he looked out over the destruction.

But Arya didn’t care. All she cared about was her sister.

“Jon?” Sansa asked, their brother’s name small and shaky on her tongue.

Arya nodded. “Alive.”

“And Bran?”

Arya nodded again.

Air blew out of Sansa’s lungs in one long gust and she hugged Arya with a renewed fervor. “Thank the gods,” she said quietly.

_The gods didn’t save them,_ Arya thought with irony. _I did. If you can believe it._

She didn’t offer up the information, though. She knew it would get out eventually—Jon wasn’t known for keeping secrets and Bran seemed to take some pleasure in doling them out as he wished—but she wasn’t going to hasten the process along.

“Are they hurt?” Sansa asked breathlessly. She pulled back, searching Arya’s face. “Are _you_ hurt?”

“No,” Arya said automatically, though the bone deep ache in her body and the throbbing of her head said otherwise.

Sansa narrowed her eyes, sensing Arya’s untruth. But Arya wasn’t one to let a lie be found out. “I’m fine,” she said with all the sincerity she could muster. “Jon, from what I could see, is fine. Bran is fine. Are you?” Arya swept her gaze over her sister, thinking of the bloodied civilians again.

Sansa nodded, but fear still glittered in her eyes. “The dead in the crypt,” she said. “They came to life.” She dropped her hold on Arya and pulled the dragonglass dagger from her belt. It was smeared with dark blood. “I, um, stuck one with the pointy end.”

Arya’s mouth dropped open and she stared from the blade to her sister in astonishment. “You… _killed_ one of them?”

Sansa nodded.

“I…” Arya was having trouble forming words. “I’m impressed,” she settled on. “And you’re sure you weren’t hurt?”

“I’m sure,” Sansa said, the words dark and tired. “But people died in there.” She looked out behind Arya, at the heaps of corpses. “More people died out here, I suppose.”

“They did,” Arya said, casting her gaze around again. The Hound was nowhere in sight, but Gendry stood a few feet away, looking awkward and small, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion. “What do we do with the bodies now?”

Sansa shrugged. “I assume we’ll burn them,” she said sadly. “But not right now. Now, we focus on the living.”

“Do we have medics?” Arya asked.

“Not that I know of,” Sansa replied. “But I know how to stitch.” She took a deep breath, drawing herself to her full height and burying her fear. “I’ll go find supplies. And others to help.” She gave Arya another once-over. “And you should get yourself taken care of, too. That head wound looks bad.” There was steel in her voice, a command from the Lady of Winterfell, not a concerned request from a sister.

“Really, Sansa—”

Her sister cut her off with a sharp glance. She didn’t have to say anything for Arya to know she’d seen through her.

“Take care of yourself,” Sansa finished. She flicked her gaze to the side, to Gendry. “Or find someone to take care of you. I’m going to find our brothers and then organize medics.”

“They were in the godswood,” Arya called weakly as her sister walked away.

Sansa raised a hand in acknowledgement and kept on walking.

Arya stood there. With stunning clarity, she realized how attractive the ground looked. She had wanted nothing in her life quite so much as she wanted to sit down. But she also knew if she sat down, she wasn’t going to get back up any time soon.

“So that’s your sister,” Gendry said softly. He was watching her walk away, just like Arya was.

“That’s my sister,” Arya said.

She watched him carefully. There was a small, traitorous part of her that was scared of him meeting Sansa. Even here, in all this horror, Sansa was composed and regal, strong and beautiful and everything that Arya had never been. Sansa was a _lady;_ Arya was…something else. And Arya had no idea why anyone would want what she was over what her sister was.

But when she turned back to him, Gendry’s eyes were on her. “You’re not fine,” he said simply.

She looked him over, the mud and blood and deep-seated tiredness he carried in his frame. “Neither are you,” she said.

Tentatively, he reached out his hand and placed it on her shoulder. She let him tug her closer, tucking her in against his side. His fingers traced the weeping wound on her forehead, clumsy, blacksmith’s fingers, but trying hard to be gentle.

“How’d this happen?” He asked quietly.

“I jumped down some stairs and ran into a doorway,” she said, fighting the absurd urge to laugh at the memory. She touched his cheek, where he had a trickle of blood traveling down toward his chin. “What about this?”

“You know,” he said. “I don’t even know.”

They stared at each other, settling into the moment _hard_ , two people punched in the gut with atrocity. Arya felt every ache and pain in her body, her legs gone heavy and weak at once.

Feeling like a little girl all over again, she took his hand, wrapping her fingers around his. “Let’s go inside,” she said.

Wordlessly, he nodded and she led him toward the castle.


	4. Dawn, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of Dawn, Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So you know that feeling when it's been like two months since you uploaded but then you upload an absolute CHONK of a chapter? Yeah. Grad school really smacked down my productivity, but I am here to offer a very long (slightly belated) chapter for Valentine's Day. 
> 
> (recommendation: I wrote most of this chapter just absolutely blasting I Am Hers, She is Mine on repeat and tbh I think that's the optimal way to read most of it too, so if you are inclined I'd say give it a go).
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading! Hope grad school lets me update more soon but we'll see!

The inside was no better than the outside.

Heaps of bodies of the dead and dying. Walls broken down, doors thrown open, hanging half off their hinges. Wights and weapons and snow blown in through holes in the walls, rafters in pieces, and the tinny sound of screams from far off.

Arya was torn. One part of her wanted to help these people, all of them, damn the consequences. That was the old her, the younger her that still knew what it was like to help someone and have it matter. The other part of her was old and cynical. It said those people would die whether she helped them or not, so why waste her time. Why waste another ounce of hope she didn’t have on people who couldn’t use it?

It was Gendry who tugged her along then. She hadn’t realized she’d frozen solid in the middle of the corridor, reliving the night and reliving her past at the same time. But her hand was still securely tangled up with his, so when he pulled, she followed.

He took them back the opposite direction, to the forge. It was empty now, and cold. There were a few bodies, nothing more, and Gendry kicked them out of the way, leading her toward the hearth. He released her hand, but only to stoke a fire to life. When that was done, he took a bucket of water and dumped into a cast iron pot, heaving as he hoisted it up to the forge.

“What are you doing?” Arya finally asked, exhausted twice over just from watching him.

“Boiling water,” he said. “We’ll need it.”

“Why?” She asked.

He raised an eyebrow at her. He moved to stand in front of her and gently tilted her head, examining the wound. “I think you know why.”

“I can take care of myself,” she snapped out of habit, swatting his hand away.

These days, he was not so easily cowed. He gazed down at her, his stare heavy and piercing all at once. “I know you can,” he said. “Anyone who can survive that can take care of themselves.”

She felt guilty, suddenly, for not telling him what she’d done. The Starks were so honorable and upstanding, known for never breaking oaths or committing dishonor. But Arya lived with lies on her tongue and in her heart and she didn’t know how to make them stop. “Then I guess I owe you an apology,” she said, instead of anything she was thinking. “Maybe you are a fighter after all.”

He barked a short, humorless laugh. “Really, I owe _you_ an apology. I shouldn’t ever have suggested you go to the crypt. You…” he trailed off, shaking his head in astonishment. “Did you learn to do all that in Braavos?”

“Most,” she said. She was too tired to lie and too tired of lying.

“How?” He asked simply. He pulled a stool over and sat, groaning softly as he did so.

“Jaqen H’ghar,” she said. “Do you remember him?”

Gendry’s face immediately soured. “Of course I remember him. Bloody bastard.”

She raised her eyebrows. She didn’t remember Gendry feeling that much vitriol toward Jaqen when they were younger. If he had, she hadn’t noticed it at all.

“He gave me a coin,” she continued. She scrunched up her brow, thinking back on that day and getting lost in the memory. “That day, after we escaped Harrenhal. You remember that? He found us when the sun came up and he gave me an iron coin.” Her fingers twitched, like she could still hold it. But it was long gone by now, the first of many prices she’d paid to the Faceless Men. “He offered to teach me to do what he could do, but I said no. I wanted to,” oh, she had _wanted_ to, “but I couldn’t. I had to find my family. And I had you and Hot Pie. But he told me that if I ever changed my mind, I could give the coin to any man from Braavos and say the words _valar morghulis_ and they’d help me. _”_

The forge had gone so silent. The only sounds were the roar of the fire and their breaths in the air.

“And you did,” Gendry finished for her.

“I did,” she said. Her heart tore a little in her chest, thinking of all that time she spent being angry and hateful, of how much she’d wanted the life of a Faceless Man. She’d thought if she were one of them, then death would have no power over her. She had wanted nothing more than to command death, to control it so it couldn’t hurt her anymore. But she’d been a fool. She didn’t know death—death was as unknowable as it was inevitable. And yet, the idea of it had given her comfort when life had given her none. Meryn Trant’s blood had tasted sweet when the world had only ever given her bitterness. Watching the Frey’s die had been triumphant after a lifetime of tragedies.

“Why?” He asked.

She stared at the floor, unseeing, remembering. “Everybody was dead,” she said. “I thought you were dead. The Hound. Robb. Bran. Rickon. My mother. My father,” her voice cracked on that final word. She cleared her throat and continued. “I figured my sister too, probably. And I couldn’t get to Jon. The ship I found was sailing to Braavos, not White Harbor or Eastwatch. I couldn’t convince them to change course and I didn’t have enough coin anyway.” She stared down at her hand, flexing and clenching it reflexively. “It seemed like fate, at the time,” she finished lamely.

“What did you do in Braavos? What…what did you learn to do?” He asked in a whisper, as if he knew this was where her information would run dry.

“I was training,” she said tightly, the same thing she’d said to Sansa when she’d asked. There was too much of her that clung to her time with the Faceless Men, though she wasn’t sure why. Maybe because it was personal and it hurt, or maybe because she didn’t want to show anybody, especially not Gendry, how badly she’d failed at something she’d wanted so much.

“I went back to King’s Landing,” Gendry spoke into her silence, filling it up when she couldn’t. “After…everything.”

Arya frowned. “What’s ‘everything’? The last I saw you, the Red Woman was taking you away in the back of that bloody cart.” She wondered if she sounded as unconscionably angry as he had at the mention of Jaqen. She felt like she did.

Gendry sighed deeply, staring down at his hands. “Like I said, she wanted my blood. Everything…everything I said happened, then she and Stannis put me in a dungeon to rot. Maybe…maybe they planned to burn me. I don’t know. Davos helped me escape, though. Put me on a boat and told me to keep rowing until I got to King’s Landing.” He shrugged. “So I went back to the Street of Steel. Set up my own shop there.”

 _Of course Davos did_ , she thought, her estimation of the man shooting up. But there was something else that caught her attention. “You had your own shop?” For some reason, this amazed her. “I bet it was the best,” she said proudly, sounding to her own ears a bit like her old self.

Gendry smiled. “I was good,” he said. “Not the best, because that would draw too much attention, but I was good. I stayed there for a couple of years, until Davos showed up at my shop again, asked me to come with him back to Dragonstone. This time to meet Jon.”

“Why would you go back there?” She asked. She thought of Braavos and how she probably _couldn’t_ go back if she wanted, but how she didn’t want to either. “Why would you leave King’s Landing? You had a life there.”

“I _existed_ there,” he said. “There’s a difference. I wanted any kind of change, and when I heard it was your brother…” He cut himself off, gazing up at the ceiling, his hands clasped in front of him. “I knew I had to go. I’d felt guilty for so long for leaving you. Seven hells, I thought _you_ were dead. I mean, I shouldn’t have because you’re… _you_ , but I did. I thought if you were alive, then I’d have…I don’t know, heard something? It’s sounds stupid to say, but that’s what it felt like. Like you were too big to go unnoticed for long, so if I never heard word of Arya Stark, then you must have been dead.” He shook his head. “Leaving with Davos was my chance. To do right by Jon in a way I didn’t with you. So I took it. I didn’t even ask where we were going, I just went with him.” He winced. “Wish I’d known where we were going, in retrospect. But it turned out all right, I suppose. We’re here now, at least.”

Arya turned her gaze to the floor, overwhelmed with emotion. It was hard to place exactly what she was feeling or why, but _emotion_ crashed over her in a violent wave. The way he said y _our brother_ made her think of Robb and that made her think of her dream, where she and Gendry had made it to Riverrun, where Robb hadn’t died, where Gendry had made swords and armor for the North and everything that had gone so wrong in real life went right. Even though Robb had gone, and so had she, Gendry went to Jon because he was her brother…and maybe Gendry had wanted that dream too, in some way.

“Thank you for being there for him,” she said quietly, the words strained from holding back tears, “when I couldn’t be,” she finished.

She sagged onto a stool opposite him, all the fight beaten out of her. Even more than before, she ached. Her bones and her soul, throbbing in unison. “Really, it’s a miracle he’s survived this long,” she said. “Though, I suppose he didn’t.”

It was a weak deflection of her emotions, but Gendry didn’t comment on it. He grabbed a rag and pulled the pot out off the fire, setting it on the floor. The water spewed steam into the air, heat hitting her like a soothing balm. The forge was getting warmer by the second, between the fire and the steam, and her muscles began to relax. And so did she. Her eyelids sagged, the weight of her sleepless night finally catching up with her. She barely even noticed when Gendry moved his stool beside hers and dipped a rag in the hot water until he began to clean her wound.

“Stop,” she muttered, knocking his hand away. It would have been more impressive if she could muster any kind of real strength. Gendry was accommodating in lowering his hand, though. “I can do it myself.”

“Really?” He asked. She could _hear_ the eye-roll in his voice. “You can’t even hit me proper.”

She swiveled to face him. “Would you like me to try?” She responded on instinct.

“ _No_ ,” Gendry said. “After the night we’ve had, I’d really rather there was _less_ hitting, not more.”

Arya held her hand out for the rag, expectant, waiting.

Gendry ignored her completely.

Arya sighed loudly as he went back to cleaning the wound, but she didn’t stop him. She didn’t like having the help, but even she could admit that she needed it.

He was meticulous with the wound, getting every bit of muck and dirt out of it. At least, that’s what she assumed given how long he lingered there, washing it clean with hot water over and over again. She thought about complaining, just to get his hackles up, but she was too tired for that. The water was warm and so was he and mostly she just felt her eyes drifting closed.

How she could sleep after everything that had happened was beyond her, but here, with him, she felt safe. Safer than she’d felt in a long, long time. Which was completely ridiculous because Gendry was not a better fighter than her and he wasn’t better at noticing threats than her—but he made her feel safe anyway, in a way that had nothing to do with physical threats at all. No, it was a bit deeper than that _._ She had nothing to hide, no other person to pretend to be. The girl Gendry had known may not have been who Arya was now, but she had been something similar. At least, similar enough that he didn’t carry those expectations her siblings did. Like the Hound, he had seen her darkness a long time ago and would expect nothing less of her. More than that, he seemed to accept her for it, not unlike when they’d been children.

She was half asleep when he began cleaning the rest of her face. She hardly noticed at first, until she felt the water cooling on her skin and opened her eyes, staring up at him. He didn’t notice. He was single-mindedly focused on his task, his hand rock steady even though he must have been just as exhausted as she was.

“What are you doing?” She asked, the words coming out as a whisper.

His eyes shot to hers and he blinked, as if coming out of a reverie. “Cleaning you up,” he said simply, indicating that this was supremely obvious. “You’re dirty.”

“So are you,” she said. “Sit down. We’ll both get cleaned up.”

He shook his head, dipped the rag in the hot water, and scrubbed gently at the side of her face. The rag was half black by then with blood and dirt and sweat. “No, it’s all right.”

Gently, she grasped his wrist. She didn’t have enough strength left to make it any kind of threat, but he stilled anyway, knowing what she wanted, letting her have it. She looked up at him, searching his face for signs of pain, his skin for injuries. “Where are you hurt?” She asked.

“I’m all right—” he started.

“No, you’re not,” she said. “You’re still bleeding.” Moving gingerly, she stepped down from the stool, prying the rag out of his hand as she did so. “Sit down,” she said, nodding to the chair.

His eyes flicked nervously around the room, like he was afraid someone was watching them. “Arya, I—”

“Gendry,” she said, softly but firmly. “Sit down, please.”

Maybe it was the please that did it. Arya was not accustomed to using the word and clearly Gendry remembered that. He shut his mouth and he sat.

She took over what he’d been doing, flipping the rag inside out to get to a clean side and searching his scalp with light fingers to find his head wound. It didn’t seem deep, but it was full of dirt. She worked on the wound first, cleaning it out as best she could before turning to the trails of blood and splotches of dirt on his face. Unlike him, her hands were still shaking. She did everything she could to make them work properly, to keep them rock steady, but it wasn’t happening.

Everything around her felt surreal. Being in the forge with Gendry, being in Winterfell, the knowledge that thousands upon thousands of bodies were piled up outside, remembering what the White Walkers had looked like, how the wights smelled, how the Night King had cracked and shattered when she’d stabbed him. A thousand things swirled in her head, the simple miracles of her life and the most unbelievable of them. They tangled and fought for purchase in her head, taking up all her room for thinking. Now that it was quiet, now that it was still, she couldn’t stop herself from reliving everything. _Everything_. It wasn’t just this night that kept circling her, it was every night since she’d fled the Red Keep, since Syrio had died. It all coalesced like a trap, taking over her mind and bringing her hands to a stop, though her fingers still shook.

It didn’t take long for Gendry to notice. Much as she’d made fun of him for being stupid when she was a girl, he had always been observant. He was the only one who’d figured out she was a girl when they’d traveled with Yoren, and now he was the only one who’d know how broken she really was.

But he didn’t say anything. Silently, he grabbed her hand, curling both hands around her one, completely swallowing her fist in his grasp. And he held it in his lap, keeping her close but not calling out her weakness.

She was so grateful she thought she might cry again. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d done this much bloody crying.

After a little while, he stood. He towered over her, just as he had when they were young. She had to crane her neck to look in his eyes when he stood this close, but she didn’t really mind. She’d take the pounding in her forehead any day if she had the chance to look at him and wonder at the fact that he was still alive, even after all these years.

He released her hand, his going instead to the laces of her leather jerkin. They stilled on the strings, his eyes going to hers. There was no fire in them, just a question.

Wordlessly, she nodded. He nodded back and began to undo the laces, his fingers sluggish with the dextrous task. Eventually, he pulled the laces free and pushed the jerkin off her shoulders.

She let it drop to the ground, still confused. But she did nothing to stop him when his hands went next to her scarf, carefully unwrapping the larger knot and dropping it to the ground as well.

He ran his fingers over her neck, dragging thick callouses over her skin. She shivered at his touch, and he stilled, watching her carefully. She met his eyes, not knowing what she was trying to tell him, but knowing he could see a whole world of words in hers. Words she’d never learned how to say and didn’t know if she could pronounce properly. She wondered if he knew them, if he’d had any experiences with them before now. But even thinking about it conjured up a melancholy weight in her belly, so she forced herself to forget about it. Maybe it was better not to know. Yes, that seemed right.

He ran his hands over her throat and on to her shoulders, applying gentle pressure, searching for any injuries. He noted her wince when his hands brushed over her battered shoulder, from when she’d clipped a corner while running, and the tender spot on her back where a wight had hit her. His hands moved down the sides of her chest, light and modest, and travelled down her waist, his fingers digging in slightly. She liked it, like how it made her feel _real_ and connected. A physical tether to this world, to this reality. It quieted some of the voices in her head, settled her back into herself.

His fingers gripped the hem of her undershirt. The backs of his fingers lightly grazed her hip and her stomach, reminding her of the night before, the way she dragged his hand over the constellations of her scars. Now that she was less brash, less reckless and afraid of death, she was hesitant. She’d forgotten about her scars the night before, hadn’t even thought of them as something that might catch his attention. But now she was self-conscious. What she’d shared with him before, she’d done because she thought they were both going to die. Only they hadn’t.

So it was not the recklessness of the dying that had her undoing the laces at her throat for him to lift the shirt up over her head. It was something else entirely.

He was still assessing her, searching her naked torso for more bruises and cuts. There were plenty of them. Even so soon after the battle, bruises were beginning to darken and bloom on her chest and arms. She was sure her back would be one giant splotch of ugly dark bruise before long. Somehow, smears of dark blood had made it past her jerkin and stained her arm. She almost gagged remembering, knowing it must have been the wight she’d killed in the library.

Gooseflesh rose on her skin and she wanted nothing more than wipe that memory clean. She had been fine when she couldn’t see it, couldn’t feel it. But now that she knew it was there, it was a struggle not to lose what little she had in her stomach over it.

Gendry pressed lightly against her hip, pushing her back toward the stool. He murmured, “Sit,” so quietly she almost didn’t hear. She didn’t argue with him, though. The time for arguing was well past. She didn’t have enough bravado left in her for that.

As she sat, he knelt down before her, grabbing the laces of her boots and working them loose. He pulled them off, though one boot stuck around her swollen ankle and he had to work it carefully free. She didn’t make a sound while he did it. What was one ounce more pain on top what she was already feeling?

He placed the boot on the ground and cradled her ankle, checking how swollen it had become. Not too much yet, but Arya knew better than to hope for the best.

“How tender is it?” He asked quietly.

She shrugged. “No more than the rest.”

He blew out a breath as he stood, somehow seeming ten years older in the span of a few seconds. He stared down at her, his blue eyes dark and unfathomable, saying something she couldn’t read. Then he grabbed the rag and dipped it into the water again.

This time, he squeezed the water out over her shoulders, scrubbing away the cold, black blood. He took his time, cleaning every inch of her he could with more care than she thought was possible. Especially for him. Where had the boy gone, the one that laughed at her and told her not to insult bigger people? The one who had lectured her on safety, but couldn’t hold a sword right to save his life? The one who’d nagged and made fun of her and, one day, left her behind? It was just as hard to imagine that Gendry had been that boy as it was to imagine him doing this for her. But with every trickle of water, Arya was cleaner, and with every second she found herself unable to look away from Gendry’s face.

It was stoic, focused, his eyes on her skin, his hands steady and firm. He worked with intensity, the same as when he was making weapons. But in the forge, Gendry was confident. He held himself like he knew exactly where in the world he belonged and had not only found peace with it, but was fulfilled by it. Here, he was more self-conscious, his eyes never straying close to hers, his work so single-minded it was like he was intentionally trying to block everything else out.

While he worked, Arya undid the laces of her trousers herself. Without preamble, she lifted herself up and pulled them down, carefully working the fabric down her legs and over her swollen ankle, doing her best not to disturb Gendry.

He took his cue from there and washed the rest of her clean, revealing every bruise, cut, and scar she bore on her body. The water had cooled to lukewarm by the time he was done and her skin was rubbed pink and prickled with gooseflesh, this time from the cold on her skin.

It was only after he’d finished that he let his eyes meet hers. There was something achingly vulnerable in his that echoed in Arya. She wasn’t sure she’d ever felt this vulnerable in front of another person, at least not as far as she could remember. Even the idea of standing naked in front of a man was one that she could have hardly imagined bare weeks ago, yet here she was. Her world all turned upside because of who was back in it.

His mouth opened, words on the tip of his tongue, but then his jaw snapped shut. He glanced to the side and when he spoke again, the words were wooden, not what he’d wanted to say. “Wait here,” he said.

Confused, she did, watching as he stalked off to the back of the forge. His steps were stilted with fatigue, but he moved quickly, clearly in a hurry.

That’s when she realized she was naked. Well, she’d known it before but it was different when she wasn’t thinking about how anyone could walk into the room and see. She glanced at her soiled clothes, bundled in a pathetic pile on the ground and curled her lip up in disgust at the thought of putting them back on. Memories of that black blood came to her again and she had to turn away from the pile, looking toward the door.

Oh, gods. What if _Jon_ walked in?

She shook her head fiercely, clearing that away. It was almost as bad as thinking about the blood.

When Gendry returned, it was only bare moment later and with a cloak in his hands. He draped it around her shoulders, pulling it closed in the front before she could do it herself. It was absurdly long on her, at least a foot of fabric bunched up on the ground. But it was warm and she was covered so she didn’t care so much.

“I left this here,” he said, his eyes still avoiding hers. “I’m glad I did now.”

That was right, she realized. This was his cloak, the same one they’d used as a blanket the night before.

“So am I,” she said. She glanced at her clothes again. “Those need to be burned.”

His hand lingered on her arm unconsciously, his gaze on the door to the forge. “It’s not the only thing,” he said.

Just like that, she felt the melancholy sweep over her again, bringing her firmly back to reality. And reality was not this. A moment like this, here, with him, was more dream than anything. Real life was outside that door, full of carrion and horror. The forge was a dream, one she wasn’t sure she could trust.

“Maybe we should help,” Arya said, speaking before thinking.

But it brought Gendry’s gaze back to hers, his eyes wide and filled with a touch of anger. “You shouldn’t be doing something like that on a swollen ankle,” he said immediately. “And besides, you remember what happened the last time you tried moving the bodies.”

“If they need help, I will help,” she said automatically, ready for a fight. “I’m not an invalid.”

“No, you’re not. You _are_ injured though.”

“So is almost everyone else out there!”

“Everyone else out there isn’t trying to drag bodies around to prepare some pyres or something,” he leaned in toward her, a heat in his voice that said he knew he was right and he wasn’t going to let her wriggle out of it. “The injured will be getting help and resting. Which is what _you_ should be doing. Take what time you can to rest and you’ll be more help to everyone.”

 _Rest._ It was a foreign concept to her. How was she supposed to rest if she knew there were people struggling out there, people she could help? Maybe she was being stupid, maybe she should care more about her swollen ankle and her pounding head, but she’d done more and with worse injuries before. She’d walked back to the House of Black and White bare hours after killing the Waif. If she could do that, she could do this with ease.

Or maybe she was lying to herself. Maybe this wasn’t the same as everything else she’d experienced. She only wanted it to be, because then she could pretend it didn’t matter, that things weren’t different now. If she kept going on like nothing had changed, maybe nothing had.

“I need to return to my chambers,” she said softly. “I need new clothes and I need to find my family.”

Arya spoke without thinking about what she saying. It was all true, but when she saw Gendry’s nearly imperceptible wince, her stomach dropped.

 _Family._ That word that haunted them, conjuring up vivid, terrible memories.

 _“I could be your family,”_ she’d told him, so young and earnest. Not understanding why he wanted to leave her, why _everyone always_ left her.

 _“You wouldn’t be my family,”_ he’d said, tipping his head at her in a deferential nod. _“You’d be m’ilady.”_

She understood it now, though. She knew what he’d meant and she knew he was probably right. But it tasted sour, the knowledge that her dream was a lie, nothing that could ever have been, even if Robb and her mother had lived. Even if the Red Woman hadn’t taken Gendry away. He had been right.

Gendry nodded, not betraying anything else. “They’ll be worried,” he said.

She nodded as well, parroting the motion. “Yes, they will.” She hesitated though, looking over his stained clothes and the dirt, blood, and sweat that still clung to his skin. “Are you all right, though? And I mean that. You’d tell me if you were hurt, wouldn’t you?”

He cracked a smile, a wan, sad thing filled will false confidence. “You do care,” he said.

She didn’t smile back. She didn’t think any of this was very funny. “You didn’t answer my question,” she said, a mixture of worry and impatience making her words come out sharp and angry.

He watched her steadily, coming back to himself. Now was not the time for flippant jokes. They had barely survived the end of the world—even Arya was due to be a little worried.

“I’m all right,” he said, his voice gone soft and gentle. “Just tired, is all. Nothing got me too badly.”

She nodded sharply in acknowledgement and then floundered for a moment. She needed to leave. She knew that. She needed to go and find clothes and then her siblings and they needed to figure out how to move on from all of this. She needed to know who was dead and who’d survived. She needed to do anything other than stay in that forge with Gendry and pretend the rest of the world didn’t exist. But she couldn’t quite make herself do it, like she was stuck here because she knew the second she went back out _there,_ she’d have to face everything all over again.

And she’d have to face what _she_ had done as well.

“Gendry,” she began cautiously. “Do you know what happened? What made it end?”

He frowned, surprised at the change of subject, she guessed. “I…no. I don’t. I figured Jon killed that thing, right? The Night King?”

She hesitated. This, like most things, was a truth she did not want to tell. But he would find out whether she told him or not. “It wasn’t Jon,” she said quickly, wanting to get it over with. “It was me.”

He stared at her blankly for a long moment. “It was what?” He asked, giving an uncomprehending slow blink.

“I was…I was in the castle, right?” She said, rushing on. “And I almost died there, but Beric saved me and then the Hound and I saw the Red Woman, yeah? And she…she told me something, years ago. When she came to get you.” She could feel herself rambling but she looked up at him at the mention of the Red Woman, watching his reaction.

A muscle in his jaw twitched and his eyes seemed to grow a touch colder. Not at her, just at the memory. But he met her eyes steadily and nodded slowly, urging her to continue on.

“She looked in my eyes and saw something that day,” she said, a bit nervously. She’d never told anyone about this, worried it would make her sound like a lunatic. She felt a bit like a lunatic now that she was doing the telling. “She said she saw a darkness in me. That I’d take many lives. People with brown eyes and green eyes and blue eyes.” She glanced back up at him, wondering if he understood what she was saying but also knowing she wasn’t making any bloody sense. “And blue eyes,” she repeated, as if that would help.

“Are…are you saying this _prophecy_ of hers had you running off to go fight the Night King?” He asked, his brow furrowed, tone just slightly— _just slightly—_ incredulous. “And then…you _did it?”_

“I guess so,” she said. Afraid he wouldn’t believe her—mostly because she was having trouble believing it herself—she picked up her dagger and drew it from its sheath, showing him the Valyrian steel blade once more. “I used this. I…I caught him by surprise and I stabbed him in the heart and he just…” she trailed off, searching for the right way to describe it, the way that would make it all make sense. “Shattered,” she finished, not thinking of any better way to say it.

Gendry stared at the blade and stared at her, his face slack with disbelief. Gently, he grabbed the blade of the dagger, tipping it toward him so the light of the forge played off the striations in the metal. “This is what did it,” he said, but it wasn’t a question.

She nodded anyway. “I didn’t know if it would work,” she said. “I didn’t really think it would. I just didn’t know what to do. He was going to kill Bran, I had to do _something_.”

“You could have died,” he said, still in that dull, shell-shocked sort of voice.

She tipped her head back and forth. “I could have died a number of times tonight. Really this wasn’t so much in comparison.”

He closed his eyes and blew out a breath, releasing the blade. “Well, thanks for that. Not dying, you know.” His eyes crept back to the bared steel, squinting at it distrustfully. “Did you really kill him? _It?”_

Arya gave a short, slow nod. “If you don’t believe me now, I’m sure you will when Jon tells everyone what happened. You know he wouldn’t lie.”

“It’s not that I don’t believe you,” Gendry said quickly. “I do. I believe you are telling the truth. I…” he trailed off, a rueful half-smile on his face. “Really I shouldn’t be surprised at all. I should know better at this point not to underestimate you. I guess I’m still catching up.”

Arya swallowed hard. She’d imagined any number of responses to her claim in a split second, mostly ranging from complete disbelief to open mouthed gaping or even _fear_ of her and one horrifying possibility that he would kowtow. Possibly the last thing she thought he’d do was accept it. Say he’s still catching up. Smile at her. It was the easiest to deal with of all the options, but she wasn’t sure what to do with it.

“Yeah,” she said. “I suppose. We should get going.”

His brows lowered as he looked down at her. “How’s your foot?”

She put a bit of weight on it and fought off a wince. It didn’t feel good, but she was used to that. “It’s fine,” she said.

He narrowed his eyes at her.

“It _is_ ,” she said.

“It looked pretty swollen to me.”

“Just because it’s swollen doesn’t mean it’s that bad.”

He cocked an eyebrow.

She blew out an exasperated breath. “It’s _fine_ , Gendry. I can walk myself back to my chambers without keeling over because of a _twisted ankle._ ”

“I think it’s a little more than twisted,” he said. “But you’d need a physician to tell you how bad it is. I just know it’s worse than you’re letting on.”

“Can we just _go?”_ She asked, gesturing toward the door.

“Let me walk you to your chambers and we can go.”

She glared at him and crossed her arms over her chest, though it went mostly hidden under his cloak. “Why would I need an escort?” She asked, her tone gone icy cold.

“Because your bloody fucking ankle is twice it’s normal size—which, yes, I know what it’s normal size is supposed to be thank you—and you need someone to help take the weight off it.” He mirrored her stance, arms crossed, shoulders squared. “Really, I should carry you. There’s snow and weapons and who knows what else all over the ground out there. I think it’s stupid for you to walk—but we could compromise.”

She sized him up, taking a deep breath, wanting to fight. There was just something about him that always made her want to fight and with him she never seemed to do all that well. She also knew he had a point here and she wasn’t keen on walking around barefoot or even with one boot on, but there was no way she was getting her swollen foot back in that boot and _no way_ she was going to risk anyone seeing him carrying her around date castle. Apocalypse be-damned.

“Fine,” she said reluctantly.

“Great,” he replied.

She snatched one boot off the ground and glared at him as she put it on her good foot. When she finished, he stepped in close and wrapped an arm around her waist, having to lean down slightly to get a good enough grip for her to lean her weight against him. Even still, she didn’t have the luxury of holding on to him for support either, not without opening the cloak. She got the immediate sense that this was going to be a very, very long walk.

Feeling only a bit trepidatious about that, she jerked her head at the back of the forge, where they’d spent the night before. “Lets go that way. Fewer people.” Less chance of getting seen wearing nothing but a cloak in the middle of winter. Less chance of anyone noticing and commenting on what she was letting Gendry do.

Maybe fewer bodies to wade through, too.

When they walked out of the room, the awkward tension left them. There was no room for any of it out there, with a cold wind whistling into the hallway as Gendry opened the door and helped her out of the room. Slush sloshed against her bare foot and barely bit back a curse at the cold. It was enough the she didn’t even make comment when Gendry wrapped his arm tighter around her, damn near lifting her off her feet as they waded through it. She heard sobbing somewhere in the distance and smelled fire in the air. But they were tucked away in a little back corner, near a doorway that would lead into the castle proper. If nothing else, they didn’t have to go back out there.

People were inside the castle now, though. Gendry helped her walk inside, gingerly, and Arya could admit that her foot was killing her. It burned with white hot pain whenever she put too much weight on it and she was a little ashamed by how much she was leaning on Gendry again. He didn’t seem to mind though. He just tightened his grip on her waist and kept them walking.

It was easy enough to note where people were, anyway. A lot of them spoke loudly, like they couldn’t remember they were inside and they were supposed to use their inside voices now. Others stumbled around the open space, knocking into anything in their way. Gendry noticed most of them, but sometimes she’d have to tug on his arm and guide him away.

Upstairs was different. Upstairs was quiet.

“Shit,” Gendry said, looking at the wight bodies that littered the floor.

Arya shifted her weight onto her good foot, wishing once more that she had shoes on. “Yeah,“ she said.

She walked carefully past them, staring into every face of every body, avoiding the fallen weapons where they lay. Their eyes were closed. It was the only thing decent about it, that their eyes were closed.

“Where are your—”

“This way,” Arya interrupted, steering Gendry in the correct direction. She didn’t pay much attention to him beyond that. She had her eyes on the bodies and suddenly she felt some sort of emotion bubble up in her chest. Something hot and helpless and angry. Something childish that said the world was unfair, how could this have happened, how could this have happened _here_?But she’d known everything was unfair. She’d known nothing was sacred. Now she knew it even better than before.

Arya was completely silent for the rest of the walk. It was a struggle to put a cap on those emotions, which was a change from how things had been as of late. Ever since she’d returned to Westeros, finding those wells of emotions had been difficult. She’d wished they’d been more readily available to her when she first arrived at Winterfell—it would have made her homecoming with Sansa go much smoother. Here, there was just no place for it, but of course that meant she’d finally found it again. She wished it was gone, she wished she’d left her empathy and any remaining shits she had to give in Braavos. She wished the Faceless Men had actually succeeded in taking that from her and she hated them because they hadn’t. How much easier would it be to look at all of this and not care if she were no one?

Gendry opened the door when they arrived and lowered her gingerly onto the bed. It was only after he let go of her that an awkwardness overcame him, his eyes flicking around the room with uncertainty. “Are you going to be all right?” He asked.

 _That’s a loaded question_ , she thought. She clutched his cloak tighter around her shoulders, looking anywhere but at him, and did not answer.

It was a long moment before he spoke again, but when he did, the words were softer than she could have imagined. “Do you want me to stay?”

Gods, she _hated_ being this weak. She hated _wanting_ like this, and she especially hated wanting _him._

“Stay,” she said, the word nothing but a croak of a whisper.

He didn’t make her repeat it, and for that she was glad. He sat down on the bed beside her and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, tugging her close so her head rested against his shoulder. He didn’t say anything and neither did she. There was nothing to say, too much pain and heaviness hanging in the air around them for words. Instead they sat in simple silence, two souls just trying to make sense of everything that had happened, to the world, to each other.

It was an impossible task. But at least there was a warm body beside her as she tried.


End file.
